


What Fools

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, OMG what on earth is this, Whump, egregious abuse of classical text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn’t the first time in his life he’d woken up with a face full of lawn, but usually the immediate proceedings involved rugby, beer, or both. Written for JWP #26.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Fools

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: OMG. I've had this idea flitting around the back of my brain for ages, and then this prompt happened. I'm so sorry. Utterly egregious abuse of another author's text (see end notes in the unlikely event you don't recognize it right off). And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #26: Blood on the Snow. Many fairy tales have their roots in horror stories. Others are bright and shiny and sparkly by design. Use a fairy tale or horror story as the inspiration for today's entry.

"Do you think you can leave off slagging Sherlock until _after_ we get out of this mess?" John hissed. And yes, okay, perhaps that was a bit out of line, but not nearly as much as Sally Donovan's near-constant diatribe regarding his flatmate's supposed habits, manners, and psychological disorders. Particularly since her ranting had every chance of attracting the attention of the entirely-too-well-armed goons they were currently trying to avoid.  
  
Sally glared at him, then visibly took a breath and ducked her head. "Sorry," she whispered, much to John's surprise. "That was stupid."  
  
 _Yes, it was,_ John silently agreed, but knew better than to say so. "Any sign of them?" he asked instead, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.  
  
"Which ones?" Sally retorted, also keeping her voice down. "If you mean Lestrade and Sherlock, then no. If you mean whoever these nutcases are…" Her words cut off as a rattling, groaning sound rang out. John saw the warehouse shelves they crouched behind tilting towards them, and barely managed to leap out of the way before they came crashing down just where he and Sally had been. One of the many boxes that had been on the shelves burst open, adding yet more dust to the crap stirred up by the shelves’ collapse. It took everything he had not to start coughing as he breathed in the stuff. Through the haze, John saw three of the goons righting themselves from where they’d overbalanced, tipping over the shelves. One raised his gun.  
  
Something slammed into John just before the gun went off, tackling him out of the line of fire. No, some _one_ – Sally Donovan. They crashed to the ground together in a tangle of limbs, and the bullet whistled by harmlessly overhead. John stayed down, grateful that he hadn’t landed on his bad shoulder, and tried to scoot to better cover. Sally was right behind him, looking thankfully uninjured. John expected more shots, but instead he heard the strangest noise: a high-pitched giggle. Startled, he glanced back towards the goons.  
  
It was even harder to see than it had been before; if anything, the haze had grown thicker. John squinted and saw that two of the men were sitting on the ground near the collapsed shelves. One looked like he was hyperventilating; the other rocked back and forth. The third man – the one who’d taken a shot at them – was the one giggling. As John watched, the man raised his gun even higher and started shooting at the ceiling.  
  
“What the…?” Sally muttered, eyes wide. Wide enough that John saw that Sally’s pupils were contracted nearly to pinpricks, something that should _not_ be true in the relatively dim confines of the warehouse. Unlike dilated pupils, there were very few things that could cause a pinprick response, and John’s stomach sank as Sally stared at him. “Why are you red?” she asked.  
  
That’s when he noticed Sally’s hair had ribbons braided all through it. He blinked. He was almost positive that hadn’t been the case a minute ago. Which meant…  
  
The door on the far side of the room slammed open, and John saw Sherlock, enormous wings stretched behind him, lightning flickering between the feathers like a thunderstorm at night. _The oncoming storm_ , John thought, then shook his head. No, that was the Doctor. Lestrade was right behind Sherlock, literally blazing with righteous fury, blue-white radiance snapping and crackling. Even as he watched, he saw a jewel appear right in the center of Sherlock’s forehead, facets reflecting rainbows from Lestrade’s light and scattering them like diamonds, or stars, on everything around them.  
  
There was no time. There was no choice. John drew a deep breath – knowing even as he did that it was the worst thing he could do – and shouted “Stay back! Unknown airborne hallucinogen, probably opiate!”  
  
The storm in Sherlock’s wings broke, and the ground came up to smack John straight in the face.  
  
***  
  
He awoke face-down in the grass with blades tickling his nose.  
  
John groaned and levered himself over onto his back. This wasn’t the first time in his life he’d woken up with a face full of lawn, but usually the immediate proceedings involved rugby, beer, or both. This time he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he was snorting sod, or where said sod might be, or anything about where he was, who he’d been with, or how he’d gotten here. Hadn’t he just been in a…where? Wasn’t he with…who? John shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and gingerly got to his feet. Either he’d been hit by the entire scrum, or he’d knocked back more glasses than he had digits, or something else was going on entirely. He looked around, and right away, his eyes fell upon a discreetly-placed, helpful, hand-painted sign at the edge of the grass:  
  
 **Scene: A Wood Near Athens.**  
  
 _Bizarre,_ John thought, because aside from a few decorative fallen marble columns, and maybe a distant temple in the background, this looked _nothing_ like the area around Athens. He’d been there (thanks to Her Majesty’s government, he’d been a lot of places while in the Army), and it was dry and scraggly – and there weren’t any proper woods, not that he’d seen, not anymore anyway. This place looked like a proper English country wood in the spring, right down to the glimmering carpet of bluebells and primroses beneath the trees, and the magical scent of them in the air. Except, of course, for those bits of marble. And even then, England had enough pseudo-classical, Inigo-Jones-inspired buildings and such to make them plausible. Certainly more plausible than Athens. Besides which, hadn’t he just been in a warehouse in Ipswich?  
  
A faint buzzing reached his ears. He looked up, and saw Mycroft’s assistant Anthea walking towards him across the grass, Blackberry in hand, designer heels perforating the sod. She flicked a brief glance up at him before looking back at her screen, her thumbs flying over the keyboard. John started to ask what was going on, but she forestalled him.  
  
 **Anthea** :  
  
Either I mistake your shape and ranking quite,  
Or else you are that mild and doctoring sprite  
Called John Hamish Watson: are not you he  
That aids the good folk of the villagery;  
Treats wounds, and sometimes labours on the net  
To blog the cases brave adventurers get;  
And sometimes makes the pint to bear no foam,  
Whilst watching the hapless ruggers roam?  
Those that good Doctor call you, and sweet John,  
You do their work, and they shall have good luck.  
Are you not he?  
  
John blinked twice, thoroughly startled. He opened his mouth. He _meant_ to say, “Um, yeah, and what’s with the poetry?” or something like it. Instead, he found himself saying:  
  
 **John** :  
  
Thou speak’st aright;  
I am that merry wanderer of the night.  
I jest to Sherlock and do make him smile  
When I a fat and dull Inspector beguile,  
Nodding in likeness of a silly fool:  
Tho’ sometimes wield an automatic’s rule.  
In very likeness of a doctor mild,  
Yet in my heart an Army’s soldier’s wild;  
I heal and make the clinic children smile,  
Yet harm those who with ill intent beguile.  
Some docs for injured man mistaketh me;  
Trapped and scarred betimes by PTSD,  
And ‘useless’ cries, and deny me my place,  
And then Sherlock did challenge me to race  
Over rooftops and down darkened alleys,  
And there my war-torn soul at last rallies.  
But room, Anthea! Here comes Sherlock.  
  
Anthea flitted about, her wings ( _wings_?!?) a blur and her Blackberry buzzing mightily.  
  
 **Anthea:**  
  
And here my master. This is going to suck!  
  
 _That doesn’t quite rhyme,_ John thought absently, but the bulk of his attention remained riveted on Sherlock striding into the clearing. The jewel in his forehead, the one he’d seen in the warehouse _(…warehouse? running shouting lay off the insults…)_ had metamorphosed into an entire crown complete with flashing LED lights amongst the gems. The multicolored lights and refractions glimmered in his dark curls. He still had those wings, but somehow he’d managed to fit his coat over or around them in some way that John couldn’t understand. He couldn’t _possibly_ be wearing his coat and still have his wings stretching freely behind him, and yet he did. His scarf had grown enormously, and gained all kinds of colors – a twilight-shaded rainbow – but also apparently had become nearly weightless; it floated behind him in an enormous train, nearly tangling in those night-shrouded wings. A bevy of Sherlock’s homeless network, reduced in size to pixie height like Tinkerbell, followed behind him, keeping his coat and scarf and wings from mixing up with each other or trailing on the ground.  
  
A slight cough diverted his attention, and John looked over to see Mycroft standing at the other edge of the clearing, surrounded by a buzzing cloud of flying Anthea fairy-clones, all wielding Blackberries like weapons. He, too, wore a blazing crown, and had massive wings equally the size of Sherlock’s. But unlike Sherlock’s, Mycroft’s wings were every color of grey imaginable, from the nearly pearly-white to the darkest grey of pencil-lead. His clothes, too, were all shades of grey, from his light charcoal suit to his misty-colored shirt to his thundercloud-shaded shoes. Even his umbrella was the flat grey-black of wet pavement.  
  
 _Of course he’s all shades of grey_ , John realized. _There’s nothing black-and-white about Mycroft._ _Or colorful, either._  
  
 **Sherlock:**  
  
Ill met by moonlight, proud Mycroft.  
  
 **Mycroft:**  
  
What, jealous Sherlock! Antheas, skip hence:  
I have foresworn his name and company.  
  
 **Sherlock:**  
  
Tarry, rash brother: am I not thy kin?  
  
 **Mycroft:**  
  
Then I must be thine; yet you deny me.  
When thou has stolen away from duty’s call  
And in the shape of a consultant hide  
From halls of power in Inspectors’ case files  
Yet true villains abound. Why are you here,  
Come from the farthest streets of 2-2-1?  
Baker Street is your chosen abode now,  
Industrious landladies and white skull  
And broken-down ex-Army veterans  
Are your bosom chosen companions now.  
  
 **Sherlock:**  
  
How canst thou thus for shame, dear brother,  
Glance at my credit with my companions,  
Knowing I know thy love to politicians?  
Does thou not lead them through the glimmering night  
From Whitehall to White House to Downing Street  
And make them with fair words break their faith  
And whirl the whole world into grim circles?  
  
 **Mycroft:**  
  
These are the forgeries of jealousy:  
And never, since the second quarrel’s spring,  
Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,  
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,  
Or in the beached margent of the sea,  
To match our wits to the world’s vexations,  
But with thy brawls though hast disturb’d our quest.  
Therefore the world, piping to us in vain,  
As in revenge, have suck’d up to the vile  
Poisonous press; spreading despair and woe  
While real villainry goes unchallenged here;  
And crows are fat with the hapless masses.  
War and famine run rife throughout the world;  
Afghanistan grows drunk on British blood;  
Moriarty runs wild throughout the land,  
Seeking ever our utter overthrow  
Without hindrance from Yard or detective  
For both are too distracted with quarrel.  
You know what good we two could accomplish  
If ever we worked together, in-hand;  
Yet absent this natural harmony  
Chaos rules, London falls, and we wither.  
And this same progeny of evils comes  
From our debate, from our dissention;  
We are their parents and original.  
  
 **Sherlock:**  
  
Do you amend it then; it lies in you:  
Why should Mycroft cross his brother Sherlock?  
I do but beg the little Doctor here  
To be my henchman.  
  
 **Mycroft:**  
  
Out of the question.  
  
The two brothers continued arguing, but John couldn’t pay attention anymore. His entire brain was buzzing with what he’d already heard. _Wait – wait a minute. I can’t have heard that right. Sherlock and Mycroft’s estrangement is at the root of all of everything bad? Afghanistan, Moriarty, The News of the World, The Sun?_ It seemed ludicrous on the face of it. Nothing about this seemed right. And yet… Each Holmes brother was a formidable power in his own right. He’d seen them each accomplish amazing – fucking _impossible_ – things on their own. Working together, who was to say what they couldn’t do?  
  
But surely their argument couldn’t be about _him_? That really didn’t make any sense, not on any level. True, Mycroft had kidnapped him on the very same day he’d met Sherlock, and tried to intimidate him into either spying for him on his brother, or scaring him off; and he’d not really improved since…and Sherlock did rather keep…well, _flaunting_ wasn’t really the right word, not a word that he could ever apply to himself. But he _did_ rather keep _emphasizing_ John’s continued presence at 221B, in Sherlock’s life and work, to Mycroft on those rare occasions when they were all together.  
  
Was he a source of contention between the brothers? Could he be the reason why they couldn’t cooperate, come together to rid the world of Moriarty?  
  
Impossible. And yet, as if in direct refute, he heard Mycroft say:  
  
 **Mycroft:**  
  
                Give up thy John, and I will go with thee.  
  
 **Sherlock:**  
  
                Not for thy British kingdom. Homeless, away!  
                We shall sulk outright if I longer stay.  
  
And Sherlock beat his mighty wings and rose up into the air, flying away, little homeless people zipping around him in his wake.  
  
Leaving John behind in the growing darkness left by the shadow of his wings.  
  
“Sherlock, wait!” The words burst from his throat. “Wait! Wait for me!”  
  
***  
  
A hand squeezed his, tight enough to cause serious pain. A deep voice, strained and almost frantic, sounded in his ear. “I’m here, John. I won’t leave you behind. Not again.”  
  
John blinked. Brightness assailed his eyes, and he felt the burn of tears. Vague blurs slowly resolved themselves into the familiar sterility of a hospital room. And there, by his side, looking as worried as John had ever seen him, was Sherlock. No wings, no crown, no scarf, no overcoat, but most definitely Sherlock.  
  
“John?” Sudden hope warmed Sherlock’s pale eyes. “Nod if you understand me.”  
  
It was more of an uncontrolled jerk of the head than a smooth nod, but John managed it. He tried to say something, but words stuck in the dry desert of his throat.  
  
“Here.” Sherlock pushed one button, and John saw a light come on – _summoning a nurse –_ and then another, one that raised John up slightly in the hospital bed. “They said I could give you ice chips, if you’d take them. Will you?”  
  
The second nod was easier than the first, and Sherlock reached for a plastic cup and spoon. “You’ve been having terrible nightmares,” he said, with a lack of confidence that was utterly unlike Sherlock. “You and Donovan were both exposed to a highly toxic dose of pixie dust.”  
  
A brief memory of fairy Antheas almost made John choke on the first ice chips. “What?” he managed to gasp.  
  
Sherlock looked inordinately pleased at his response. “Yes, you’ve experienced first-hand the designer drug causing all the problems in our client’s chain of London clubs.” His face fell. “Or don’t you remember? That was the street name. You’re the one who put it together with the delivery of goods from Ipswich. The neurologist specialist said that brain damage was unlikely, but short-term memory loss was one of the potential side effects of your exposure…”  
  
John made a concerted effort and managed to raise his hand just enough to rest it on Sherlock’s arm, interrupting the flow of words. “I remember…a little,” he rasped. “Just not…Peter Pan.”  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Of course not. You’re John.”  
  
“Yes,” he agreed. He wanted to add _and you’re not a fairy_ , but the nurse came in then, with doctors right behind him, and by the time all the poking and prodding and readings were done, John had forgotten all about it.  
  
Except every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw Sherlock’s scarf trailing behind his flatmate, caught in an unnatural wind. And every time he did, he shivered, uneasy, and thought of coming storms.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you don't recognize my utterly abused revision of it, the fairy text is from Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.


End file.
